


the wild roses are dead

by rahelawriter



Series: That Light [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Adaptation Expansion, Amnesia, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, Dead People, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Fugitives, Gen, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Insomnia, Major Characters Captured or MIA, Minor Character Death, Nausea, Novelization, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sidequests, Sleeping Together, Spies, Stalking, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt, Trauma, Vomiting, death mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2018-08-13 10:59:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7974382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rahelawriter/pseuds/rahelawriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Is something troubling you, my child? You have the look of one who has endured great suffering. If there is anything I can do to help-- anything at all-- you need only ask."<br/>"… The wild roses are dead, Father, and I know not what to do."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All Good Things

**Author's Note:**

> This was an old drabble of mine, published on Tumblr nearly two years ago, I think. But on a whim, I decided to polish it up, and publish it here. As you can probably guess, this is one of my sadder works, set just after the Waking Sands massacre.

“Marques, I want you to look after Rahela. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father…”

The Lichkeeper Marques turned his head to meet his new charge; he was surprised to remember the face of a young miqo'te woman whom he’d met and briefly spoken with some time ago. He’d heard that Rahela was the adventurer who had exposed the false priest and stopped the murders and abductions from some moons ago; to the poor folk of Camp Drybone, she was something of a hero. But now, however, she seemed to be in a far worse state now than she was when they first met. Wringing her hands, face downcast and tear-stained, soaking wet from the pouring rain outside, and he noticed with some alarm that she smelled faintly of blood. He overheard her earlier conversing with Father Illud moments before; the girl was wanted by the Garlean Empire and bore witness to some sort of atrocity at their hands and now had to seek sanctuary within the walls of the Church of Saint Adama Landama.

Marques would never dream of questioning Father Illud or the charity he was so known for, but he could not help but feel somewhat puzzled with his choice. The girl needed shelter and comfort, but why entrust her to him? He did sympathize deeply with her, and it was true that he had seen more than his fair share of funerals, and Marques would regularly encounter at least a few mourners at each one. But he never reached out to any of them, and none of them ever reached out to him. He was well aware of his flaws, his reputation of ’preferring the company of the dead over the living,’ as Sister Ourcen once put it; ‘such behavior ill befits the church,’ she told him. And he didn’t argue with her, she was right. So why would anyone entrust him with the well-being of a grief-stricken fugitive from the Empire…?

But then Rahela glanced up at him, and the two locked eyes. Looking into them through the swollen redness, Marques immediately had the feeling that he'd seen that he'd seen that vivid teal somewhere long ago. The girl's eyes brought back memories of a dream, vague and half-forgotten. A dark night, a bright silhouette, a gift, and a good omen… Marques would latch onto anything that he thought might rekindle lost memories from before the Calamity; that was likely why building and repairing things was so calming for him. And for whatever reason, the sight of Rahela might have been doing the same thing.

Marques wasn’t at all sure what he could do for the grieving girl, but he would gladly do what he could. She just might somehow be able to provide the answers he was looking for…

-

Rahela watched the lichkeeper’s grey eyes briefly glaze over; she didn't understand why Minfilia would want her to come here. She believed Illud when he said that he was a friend to the Scions, but what good would that do besides giving her a place to stay? The Garleans were probably still looking for the slayer of Ifrit and Titan, and she would most likely have to go into hiding now. But why here? It wasn’t as though they would care in the slightest if she claimed sanctuary. It didn't matter where she hid; if they found her here, or even had reason to believe she'd ever been here, they'd descend upon the church like birds of prey to drag her out and kill everyone inside. Just like they did in the Waking Sands. Those murderers didn’t care about anything, they held nothing sacred…

A dull throbbing in her temple made the young thaumaturge to wince in pain; her entire body ached all over. She didn’t want to think about Garleans or her options or why she was told to come here, she just wanted to lay down and sleep forever. No, that wasn’t it. What Rahela most fervently wished for was to be home in the Sands. Surrounded by her friends, jubilant and relieved, unscathed and unaffected, as they celebrated her victory over Titan with a feast in the Solar. She wished that none of this had happened. But it did, and she couldn’t stop it. For all her feats of strength and perseverance, there was nothing she could do; couldn’t do anything but watch the bloodbath through the Echo. Couldn’t save her allies from being murdered. Couldn’t save the friends that were captured and in the hands of the Empire; Urianger, Tataru, Papalymo, Minfilia, the lattermost almost certainly being tortured by that white-armored viper at this very moment. Couldn’t even contact or search for the Scions that she didn’t see in the vision, and thus might have escaped; Y'shtola, Yda,  _ Thancred _ …

She wrung her hands even tighter, and yet another wave of overwhelming hopelessness and despair washed over her. It was all just too much to bear. Breathing becoming ragged, body cringing and quaking, she squeezed her eyes shut and let out a fresh stream of tears, feeling a desperate urge to hug or hold on to someone,  _ anyone _ . The last thing she’d held had died in her arms. Without a word, she bowed her head and leaned forward, burying her face into Marques' shoulder. The man tensed, almost recoiling away from her, having no idea how to respond; paying no notice, Rahela slowly lifted her hands, taking two fistfuls of the man’s cowl, and pulled him even closer. More tears leaked from her eyes, and he could feel her being wracked by loud, pained sobs.

Rahela was beyond consoling; the carnage she witnessed in the Sands would be seared into her mind forever. Livia sas Junius and the XIVth legion, they had raided the building looking for her. The fear and loneliness had numbed her to everything else; after all that happened, the only thing she could do was weep at her own helplessness.

But just as the sobbing began to border on hysterical, Marques’ strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her into a hug. He didn’t tell her not to cry; he let her bawl into his shoulder, but held her tightly, rocking her back and forth, his hand hesitating for a moment, before gently stroking the back of her head. It was a small gesture and he was unsure if it would prove to be of any real comfort, but it seemed to be working. After a few moments, Rahela managed to calm down to a degree, but one could still hear her whimpering and sniffling. She’d be doing much of that over the next few days, as matters would only worsen. And the amnesiac lichkeeper would prove to be one of her few sources of companionship. The adventurer would be pushed to her emotional limits, but she knew she couldn't give up. Maybe Yda, Y’shtola, or Thancred, or all three of them would come looking for her, or maybe she’d find a lead on their whereabouts. If she just held on, she’d be able to get her family back. Or at least, that was the only hope she could hold onto. The only thing she could do for now was survive…


	2. Plagued By Indecision

That first night, after she’d run out of tears to cry, Iliud sat Rahela down at a table with a tin cup filled with water and a small plate of fruit from the nearby camp. The elderly man fussed about her getting something in her belly, so slowly she nibbled on a pear despite her lack of appetite. Marques sat by her side, periodically glancing over and saying nothing. They sat alone in the small church, everyone else being absent. For a while the only sounds were the battering of the rainstorm outside, with the occasional crunch of teeth breaking through the pear’s crisp skin.

“So…” Rahela began, soft and haltingly, “I have to live here for now? With the clergy…?”

Marques, still having reservations that he was the right person to look after this girl, answered, “We don’t have any rooms for anyone to sleep in. The clergy, Father Iliud included, make their home elsewhere.”

“And what about you?”

“I… I just stay on the grounds,” the lichkeeper admitted. “Nowhere else for me to go.”

“Mm,” Rahela nodded, understanding. “Sounds like me, then.”

“Don’t you have a family?” Marques asked, then immediately regretted, for he knew from experience that that question never seemed to have a happy answer. 

“I do, but…” Rahela trailed off, growing tense, her gaze turning downwards. Her hands began to tremble all over again. “I’m a fugitive from the Empire now. They’ve probably got spies all over, looking for the ‘eikon-slayer.’ Going home now would only put my village in danger. And the only reason I’m here now is because…”

_ ‘At church in eastern Thanalan...walking one must claim sanctuary…’ _

Remembering those words put a fresh dagger through her gut. And refreshed the question that kept nagging at her. ‘ _ Minfilia, why did you tell me to come here? Was it really just to find shelter? This place won’t be protected against those monsters. Or was there another reason? Did you want me to find something? Or someone…?’ _

“Rahela?” Marques’ soft voice nudged her back to the present. He spoke haltingly, eyes shifting as if he were searching for comforting words, and clearly struggling. “I-I, no, well… Mmph… You… don’t need to explain anymore if you don’t want to. And I, I’ll be here, if you need anything…”

“Mm. Thank you…” Rahela nodded. Her entire being felt so hollow, and yet so heavy. She was tired, her head and her body ached, and her eyelids drooped, but she didn’t want to sleep. Right now she didn’t want to sleep, think, or do anything. Or be anything.

“What were their names?” Marques asked, and Rah glanced at him in confusion, silently asking what he meant. He clarified, “Your, your friends. The ones that are unaccounted for. If I ever hear word of them you’ll be the first to know.”

She knew he was trying to help but it hurt to remember. “The ones I know for sure are captured, it was Minfilia, Urianger, Papalymo, and Tataru.” She had to pause, just speaking their names was enough to remind her of what horrible torment they were surely facing now. Feeling a fresh wave of nausea, she had to gulp to keep down what little food was in her stomach, but she forced herself to keep talking. “And… And the people I didn’t see, they could’ve gotten away. I didn’t see Y’shtola, Yda, Tha-Thancred… I think you met him when we were investigating the kidnappings…”

“Mmm.”

“And, and, who else…” After a moment’s thought, she realized who she’d been forgetting. “Oh, I didn’t see Biggs and Wedge either. And they’re members of the Ironworks, so the Empire was already after them. I don’t even want to think about what might happen to them if--” She cut herself off after hearing a sharp intake of breath next to her. It was Marques, face locked into a grimace of pain; he was clinging to the table, trembling with tension, knuckles white from clenching so tightly. “Marques? What’s the matter?”

“Nnn, nnngh, n-no, it’s nothing… Nothing.” He choked out, his voice hoarse. Rubbing a palm against his temple, he seemed to shake off the throbbing in his head, but still didn’t look quite alright. Stumbling to his feet, he muttered, “I, I think it’s about time we all went to bed. 

She stood up, following him. Retrieving a folded-up quilt from the cabinet, Marques rolled it out so it covered enough space for someone to comfortably lay upon, to protect from the cold floor. “Here we are. It’s not much, but it should be enough.”

“Mm.” Immediately after stepping onto the makeshift bedroll, Rahela’s legs finally gave out and she collapsed flat onto it. She didn’t really have any other clothes to change into, so she’d just sleep in her adventuring gear for now. Just when starting to pull the soft sack close she noticed Marques, making no move to rest anywhere himself, and she realized she just took what was normally  _ his _ bed. And without thinking, she asked, “Uh, Marques… if it’s not too much trouble, uhm, would you stay next to me?” 

The man blinked and raised his brow, audibly taken aback when he found his voice again. “W,well, uh— No, I, I… I-it’s quite alright. But I… don’t really sleep that much anyway.” He scratched the back of his neck. “It’s rather difficult for me.”

“It’s fine.” She shook her head, nervously but urgently. “I, I just… don’t want to be alone right now. Please…?”

Marques could only flush with embarrassment at her request. Now he knew for certain that he was not properly equipped to take care of her. He wished Iliud had not already left for the night, otherwise he would beg him to name someone else as the girl’s caretaker. Even if the hue of her eyes sparked a sense of familiarity within him, he wasn’t what she needed. She needed a friend, and comfort, and he was not someone that could sufficiently provide either. Many funeral attendees and mourners over the years could attest to that. Being left alone with Marques was worse than being left alone with a cadaver. Shambling, dumb, shifty Marques. No no no, he couldn’t even make it through one conversation with her without breaking down… He couldn’t help someone else with a problem he didn’t even know how to solve for himself.

But his long silence had not gone unnoticed, as Rahela could only take it to mean reluctance. Knitting her fingers together to hide her trembling as best she could, she bowed her head. “I, uh, I-I mean, y-you… You don’t, you don’t have to… I mean, you can… Nnn…” She tried to gulp down her stuttering, but her throat was dry as sandpaper. She could barely even speak, her tired brain shorting out and leaving her a stuttering wreck. Eventually she gave up trying on full sentences, shaking her head and just saying, “I’m sorry. Good night.” She rolled over to face away from him, and curled up into a shivering ball. A far cry from the valiant adventurer who had vanquished two primals, exposed conspiracies, and saved Camp Drybone from the false priest. No, what Marques saw was a lost and frightened girl, completely alone in the world, fearing both the past and the future. Not so different from him, really…

Cautiously, Marques stepped towards the girl and reclined down on the quilt beside her. He tried to think of something to say, but none of the oft-heard platitudes that came to his mind would likely make her feel better. So he said nothing, only laying a hand on her arm and offering a reassuring squeeze.  _ Somewhere, in the shadowy depths of his subconscious, he remembered that being done to him. And he remembered it helped.  _

The girl’s teal gaze flashed up at him, and Marques struggled to find his words. “If… if there is anything I can do… please ask.”

Her eyelids drooped, slowly blinking closed. But then she rested her hand upon his; unconsciously, he took it and held it. She didn’t smile, but she sighed, her hushed voice whispered, “Thank you…” She turned back over, and nestled into his arms, grateful for the closeness. But she still had one last question: “Oh, by the way… is your head feeling alright?”

“Er, yes,” he replied, unsure why she would be concerned for him. “It comes and goes. I’m used to it.”

That seemed to be a good enough answer to her, so she didn’t say anything else. But now that she asked, he had to wonder. His migraines were frequent, but he had some idea of when they would come. Sometimes they would come when he smelled a body that was cremated instead of buried, or when he saw Amalj’aa wandering in the distance, or glimpsed an airship flying overhead. But now, he didn’t have the slightest idea what caused the sudden, intense headache. All he knew that it was accompanied by an inexplicable surge of fear and panic at something Rahela had said. What was it… Even though it was only minutes ago, he strained to remember. Was it her mention of the two missing engineers that stirred such emotion in him? Why was he so distressed for those two in particular…? 

A subtle release of tension made him remember Rahela in his arms. At last she was asleep. He doubted that he would follow; he spoke true about his difficulty sleeping.  _ Insomnia  _ it was called, but he didn’t know where he learned the term. But he wouldn’t leave her now; he couldn’t. Partly because his arm was trapped under her head and he couldn’t move it without waking her, but mainly because… As much as he knew his own numerous weaknesses, Marques wanted to help her.

-

The next morning, she’d doffed her elaborate Battlemage attire in favor of a simple black linen cowl; she’d specifically asked the church for one of theirs, as the entire clergy were hyuran. If she kept her ears folded down and kept her tail hidden, she could easily pass as one from a distance. Just in case the Empire somehow knew to look for a brown-haired miqo’te.

Much discussion between the clergy took place that day with regards to what happened at the Waking Sands; Marques was told to keep Rahela occupied. Both so she could take her mind off her recent trauma, and so she wouldn’t have to hear the discussions of what to do with her comrades’ bodies. So he kept her outside the chapel during the day, directing her attention towards various chores that needed doing or people that needed a helping hand.

Father Iliud’s vilekin repellant that needed delivering to the refugees of Lost Hope. Culling fiends that were attacking mourners looking for flowers growing on the goobbue corpse. Finding a mourner’s wayward cousin. Getting some linen for Dedeju to mend some tattered clothes.

For Rahela, she didn’t know what to make of the busywork. It was the same kind of odd jobs she always did, and she was usually quite happy to help others. But now… something about it all rang hollow. Small wonder why, she thought, but at least it gave her a chance to look around. Astride her chocobo she rode across Central Thanalan, doing what needed doing, but as soon as that was done she searched. For an animated pugilist. For a cultured conjurer. For a handsome stranger. She had half a mind to scream ‘ _ WILD ROSE _ ’ from the tallest cliff in the area, just for the chance that it would summon someone who knew what it meant.

But there was no sign of any of them. Asking around didn’t help. And neither did searching. She returned to the church that evening despondent. But she might as well finish the last of her tasks. Around to the side of the building she took the linen for Dedeju. 

The dunesfolk greeted her with cheer. “There you are! Did you get what I need?”

Another satisfied customer. Rahela turned in the linen, feeling a faint sense of disdain for just going through the motions that she always did at a time like this… 

But Dedeju didn’t seem to notice, having already decided to strike up a chat. “Much appreciate it, adventurer! Now we'll see how nimble these fingers are.” She got to work with her needle. “The Father needs this right soon, he said. Going out on some priestly business…”

Rah just nodded, absentmindedly, making a vague grunt of acknowledgment. Iliud was exceedingly kind to her but all the tiny little details of his work didn’t sound particularly interesting to listen to.

But then her topic took a different direction than she expected; “This is a piece o' piss compared to the last order, though, excuse the salty talk! 'Twas big as a house and burnt as a slattern's supper. Father Iliud brought it, but it looked to be for that lichkeeper fellow.”

The lichkeeper? “... You mean Marques?”

“Well, who else? Folk what were here for that long remember he was a right mess when he was dragged in from the side of the road. Mind you, he’s  _ still  _ a right mess, but now it’s just in the head. If he ever actually  _ wore  _ those lovely clothes of his that I took such great pains to mend when they were little more than charred scraps of fabric and leather…”

Here Rahela listened to every word, but still said nothing. But Dedeju seemed to have run out of gossip, as her next comment was, “... Don’t take this the wrong way, dearie, but you and he have a thing or two in common. Neither o’ you seem to talk much.”

Rah nodded. She got that a lot.

 

The discussions for the day had ended long ago, and Iliud invited Rahela back in to rest after her long day of toil. He pat her on the head and gave her another pear to eat. Iliud had to make some difficult decisions that day, in regards to her comrades’ final resting places. He knew she would learn eventually, but still wished he could spare her as much of the pain as possible. There was scant space left on the church grounds, and from Rahela’s telling, there would be too many for the grounds.

But all he told her was to get a good rest. For there was still more to come. It just so happened that a new (well, not new in the sense of its condition) blanket had been donated to the church that day, large enough to cover both Rah and Marques as they slept that night. Full glad the good father was to see the two taking comfort in each other. Though the amnesiac still suffered much in confining himself to his own mind, he was still a gentle soul, and much improved after five years under the church’s protection, from the young man found aimlessly staggering through the dusty haze after the Calamity, his mind completely broken. When taken back to Saint Adama Landama’s for a physicking, he spoke in a childlike state, bereft of all knowledge of himself, not even his name.

 

_ “Please, young man, drink; water will be especially precious now, and you must savor every drop.” _

_ It was only dusty water served from a soup ladle, but he gulped it down desperately. Iliud noted his several injuries; blood staining his snow-white hair, burn wounds scorching his skin, bruises all over… This poor man, still alive after all this.  _

_ Gently he lay a gnarled old hand against the other’s shoulder, and asked, “What is your name?” _

_ A sharp breath, and wince of pain. And he rolled to his side, shaking terribly and pulling his knees to his chest. The young man sobbed, “Nnn, no… I, I don’t know… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” _

_ “No, nothing to be sorry for. Pray tell, what do you remember…?” _

_ Silence, then an agonized scream filled the room, the amnesiac’s eyes wide and wild, looking at nothing and yet seeing far too much, as if the object of his terror were right above him. He gasped, and cried, “Fi-fire, dust, everything fire and dust and smoke, burning away…! Dalamud, dragon, death, it was all my fault, it was me, make it stop,  _ **_make it stop!!!_ ** _ ” _

_ Weakly he struggled, but already totally exhausted, it took a short time to get him to calm down, that there was nothing that could harm him. Still sobbing and shivering, Iliud had to hold his hand while the other clergy and chirurgeons attended to the many others who needed help. Looking to be just under thirty summers, but reduced to the mind of a small, scared child. _

_ Hesitantly, the priest touched his hand to the amnesiac’s brow. “You’ve an injury on your head that must be tended to. May I please remove these goggles you’re wearing?” _

_ With some reluctance, he nodded, but once they’d been taken off, Iliud saw an unsettling growth at the center of the man’s forehead; something that resembled a blank eyeball. He’d heard talk of native-born Garleans having such things. So that meant… _

_ “Wh-what’s wrong. Your face, it looks like something’s wrong.” _

_ A Garlean man, traumatized from witnessing Dalamud and Bahamut firsthand; a soldier at Carteneau. How long he must have walked to get here… But his burned, tattered clothes were nothing like the Imperial uniform of black and crimson. He couldn’t have been part of the VIIth Legion… _

_ Shaking his head, Iliud took a rag and wetted it with warm water. He soothed as he cleaned the  blood and dirt, “No, no, I’m sorry for alarming you. There’s nothing to fear here. It will be alright, my child. You can remain here as long as you need.” _

_ His breathing evened, and he looked up, pleadingly, as if he wanted to say something but needed permission. One soft nod later, he asked, in his hoarse, hesitant voice, “Who are you…?” _

_ “You may call me Father Iliud, or simply ‘Father.’” _

_ “… Father.” As if having someone to call such a thing was completely foreign to him. _

_ But it was like a knife in the old man’s heart. Flashes came; comforting his son after a bad dream, seeing his smile, encouraging his hopes, smelling delicious food cooked by his daughter-in-law to prepare for his visit… Finding his son’s house levelled, the splintered remains burning, and the sight of a motionless hand being enough to dash any hope that either of them escaped. _

_ Less than a day had gone by, but he couldn’t stop to grieve, not with so many others still living that might not be soon without getting help. But this, this was all too much… _

_ “Marques…” _

_ “Who’s that…?” The amnesiac asked. “Who’s Marques?” _

_ An idea came to him. Not likely to be a good one, all things considered, but… “If you like the name, it could be you. Until you remember. Marques can be your name until you remember who you really are. Does that sound good to you…?” _

_ His wide, gray eyes blinked, trying to process what was being said to him. “Marques… Aye, it does. Thank you, thank you, Father…” _

And nearly all the others receiving care that day departed eventually, either leaving to rebuild their lives or departed to Thal’s realm. A few became clergymen to repay the debt they felt they owed the church, like Barryn or Esmour. Marques, however, stayed because he had nowhere else to go. Though the physical wounds he incurred that day healed with time, his soul and his mind were not so lucky. Many of the churchgoers find themselves unsettled by his presence, by his empty stare and his mutterings of vague thoughts, his lack of response when spoken to. And sensing their discomfort, he shies away from everyone and isolates himself. In itself it was quite the miracle that he’d so quickly grown close with young Rahela.

So Iliud prayed for another miracle, that he’d remember and be reborn, like a phoenix seen in a dream…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided I want to continue this.


	3. You Can't Take It With You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some warnings–– This chapter has survivor's guilt and references to suicide ideation.

The next morning, a young boy from Drybone entered the church, struggling to carry some kind of heavy metal object, setting it down inside with a  _ thud. _

Rahela recognized him vaguely; he mentioned something about his sister being laid to rest in this churchyard, and asked her to get cloud marble for her gravestone. She felt for the boy, but he seemed to be in high spirits now. He called out, “Marques!”

Flinching at the loud noise, Marques relaxed when he saw it was only the boy. “Oh, it’s you, Eaduuard… Is there something I can do for you?”

“Remember when you fixed that clockwork toy I found a while ago?” He asked. And when Marques nodded, the boy smacked the top of the hunk of junk he carried in. “I scavenged this here oven, thinkin' I could use it to make myself hot meals, but it looks to be in a bad way. Lots of dents, a few holes even… Ever seen one of these before─or better yet, know how to fix it?”

And then Rahela saw a change come over Marques that she’d never seen before. His brow knotted in focus, kneeling down to look at the supposed oven, casting an intense, discerning eye over it. “This...this is an alchemist's alembic. You say you plan to use it for cooking?”

“Yeah, that’s what I just said.”

He stood up, looking more collected and concentrated than Rahela had ever seen him. Contemplatively, he raised a hand to his chin, deep in thought, before arriving at an answer. “I suppose it would be possible, were I to make some modifications… but I would need a different kind of hammer; the only one we keep around here is for––” On the last word, however, he suddenly choked, and cringed before he found his voice again. “S, sorry, the only one we have is for hammering in,  _ n-nails… _ ”

His tone as he said that last word was almost fearful, and both Rahela and Eaduuard gave him strange looks. Why in the world would the word  _ ‘nail’ _ bother him so much…?

But he continued, “A-anyway, I’ll need a new hammer to fix this thing. A bronze ornamental hammer should be enough to do the trick.”

That’s awfully specific, but Rahela volunteers to procure it from the shop in town, and she hurries off. There was nothing remarkable about the transaction; as with all her ventures outside, she kept an eye out, for enemies as well as friends.

Gratefully accepting the hammer upon her return to the church, Marques nodded, “Thank you, Rahela. It shan't take more than a day, I believe.”

“Aw, a whole day?” Eaduuard sulked, kicking up dust on the floor.

“Well, yes; it’ll take some time to hammer out the dents and mend the holes to create a makeshift oven.” Still being met with pouting, he then added, “I’ll be done by tonight, so be back to pick it up by sundown.”

“Alright! Seeya then. And thanks!” Darting back outside, he left the remaining two with the alembic.

Marques sighed with a shrug and rolled up his sleeves, ready to start repairs. Taking the alembic into a corner, he began hammering away at it. Rahela watched him work, neither feeling much need for conversation. 

It’s either a minute or an hour before Rahela says anything. “You almost seemed like a completely different person earlier.”

“What do you mean?”

“You seemed a lot more…” It took a moment to find the right word. “A lot more confident all of a sudden.”

“Ah… I see. Well, some see me as something of a handyman. I still get lost trying to navigate Camp Drybone, but put a machine in front of me and I instantly know what to do with it.”

“You’re that good at fixing things?”

“It's strange… I know I must have learned these skills long ago, but I haven't the foggiest when and where that was…”

Another silence followed.

“Y-you don’t have to sit and watch me work all day. If you’ve any other chores or tasks for today, I shan’t keep you from them.” His eyes flickered. “Oh, I just remembered… there’s something else, hold a moment…” 

Standing up and fetching something from the table, he showed to her a peculiar circular metal device. “It concerns this broken horologe,” 

She canted her head to the side. “A what now?”

“A timepiece,” he explained. “It was found in the pocket of a man brought here for burial.”

“Mm.”

Marques furrowed his brow and continued, “There is something… familiar about it… but just what I cannot say. Perhaps if I tinker with the device, it will come to me. However, I lack the proper tools to do so.”

“More tools?”

“Yes; a bull-point chisel and a pair of needle-nose pincers should do. But they are fairly uncommon tools, so you may need to visit the Goldsmiths' Guild and browse the markets in Ul’dah in order to find them.”

She flinched. “I, I have to go to Ul'dah alone? But…”

“Do you need me to go with you?”

“N-no, I’ll be fine, you need to fix the alembic. It’s just…”

_ After everything, with the encounters near the Tiny Bronco, with Laurentius and his ‘friends,’ and with the recent massacre at the Sands, Rahela was convinced that Imperial soldiers could appear anywhere and everywhere with no warning. When she walked so blithely into danger before, she could ill afford to do so now. Not when she knew she was a wanted woman with captive friends who needed rescuing. _

“... They could be anywhere.”

 

It was well past sundown by now, and the rain came down hard on the roof. (Thank goodness he fixed it last year, it hasn’t leaked a drop since) The alembic had long ago finished its conversion into an oven and Eaduuard had long since retrieved it. Marques wasn’t so much worried about the tools she said she’d acquire more than the fact she suddenly seemed so scared to leave. And she still hadn’t come back from Ul’dah yet. He stood at the chapel’s threshold, staring out into the rainstorm, keeping a watchful eye for his charge. 

“This is all wrong… I should have gone with her…”

_ They could be anywhere. _

Just then, a shift. Just as his eyes chanced to glance towards the fence, a dark shape darted out of view. Without thinking, Marques kept his eyes on the spot as he stepped outside, ignoring the heavy drops pelting his body, pulling down his crystal-blue goggles to keep them out of his eyes. Just as he was almost past the fence he heard rustling grass and hurried footsteps; looking to where he thought the dark shape had gone, there was nothing. 

And at that moment a powerful gust of wind blasted him head-on with a freezing sheet of water, and the hood of his cowl blew back. Reflexively the man panicked, gathering the wild mane of white hair back up and hiding it back under the thick velveteen weave. But whatever it was that ran off couldn’t have gone far–

“Marques!” The familiar voice of Rahela cut through the rain battering his senses; sure enough, he saw her entering the lichyard, hugging herself to keep steady. “I’m, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to be gone so long…!”

He called back, beckoning her along, “Come on, we’ll talk inside!”

As they walked back into the church, a hyur clad in black and crimson hiding himself behind a gravestone watched them leave. And a look of smug satisfaction crossed his face, like a predator catching sight of its prey. Once they were out of view, he ducked deeper out of the wind and whispered into a device in his ear.

_ “Put me through to the Tribunus Laticlavius. It’s urgent…”  _ A pause.  _ “My lord Scaeva? I’ve confirmed the sightings. It’s him.” _

 

In their dark corner of the already dim building, just shedding the outermost layers of their cowls and huddling up next to small pile of fire-aspected crystals was all the pair could really do to dry off. And they did so in silence, until Rahela found her voice.

“… I ran into someone I knew back in Ul’dah.” Then bowing her head, as if disappointed by her own announcement. “Not one of my missing friends, though.”

“Who was it?”

“Yayake Yake. She’s the receptionist for the Thaumaturgy Guild. She had a task for me.”

Marques expected her to say more, but she didn’t. He found himself asking, “Do you wish to talk about it?”

Another few moments of silence. “… I’d rather not, if that’s okay. I don’t know how, or why, but…” She paused, reaching into her pocket and pulling out some kind of gemstone. A dark violet gemstone, faintly glowing. Through tired eyes, she gazed at it, as if it might hold the answers to all her troubles. “I think… I think I’m stronger now. Or at least my magic is. It’s too early to be sure…”

Something definitely happened while she was out in Ul’dah. Marques furrowed his brow, trying to determine if he should say or do something. But all he could do was move himself just the slightest bit closer to her, to within arms reach. Wordlessly she pocketed the purple gemstone, closed the gap between them, leaning against his shoulder, picking up a fire crystal and bringing it closer. 

And then she was alert again, remembering something. “Oh, right. I got the tools you asked for.” Standing and making her way over to where the outer layer of her cowl was drying, she dug into its pockets and retrieved a bull point chisel and needle nose pliers. Marques had almost forgotten. She placed them in his outstretched hand. “So you can repair the horoscope.”

“Horologue.”

“That.”

Glancing between the device and the tools, Marques furrowed his brow, contemplative as he was earlier that morning. “Hmmm...something occurs to me.”

Rahela didn’t seem to notice, more willing to talk now that the topic had changed to the original purpose for her trip. “You know, I got quite a few questions from people when I was asking around for these, and I said I would forward them to you. One bloke on Sapphire Avenue said you must be ‘a skilled craftsman indeed,’ even wanting to strike up a business partnership. What do you… think?”

She trailed off, realizing that Marques didn’t seem to have heard her at all; he had the same look in his eyes as when he examined the alembic, and now he set about his repairs. With an almost superhuman level of precision and dexterity, he worked the tiny gears of the device. But despite the speed and ease with which he moved, he focused on it with an almost unsettling intensity, even frustration. If she didn’t know better she’d have thought he was interrogating it. 

But it was over as soon as it began; when the horologe was fixed, he let out the breath he’d been holding. And he shook his head, dismayed. “It was for naught. Though I repaired the device easily, this sensation that stirs within me remains a mystery.”

Rah could only say what she saw; “You had the same look on your face this morning. When there’s something that needs fixing you turn into a completely different person. You do it as easy as a black— er, as a thaumaturge casts a spell.”

“But how... _ how _ did I do it?” Marques’ expression became pained, and he looked down at his hands as if they didn’t rightfully belong to him. As if those hands, and by extension their skills, had somehow been stolen from a stranger and grafted onto his wrists. “These hands…  _ my _ hands, they moved with a mind of their own, deftly manipulating the clockwork mechanisms… There was no doubt or uncertainty. I knew exactly what to do, as though I had performed the same motions countless times before…”

All Rahela could do was stare, not knowing what to say. She’d helped so many people in the short time since becoming an adventurer, but this problem was one she couldn’t solve. The only thing she could think to do was shuffle closer to him and hold his hands, to hopefully let him know that they weren’t something to fear the way he did. 

But that seemed to startle Marques, because he only looked at her with greater confusion. And he shook his head, backing away from her. “P-Pardon me, Rahela─this was a mistake. I’ll give this back to Eluned so she can return it to the deceased man for his burial...”

“But—“

“Please forget I said anything…” 

“But—!”

Her protest was cut off by a potent rumbling; not from thunder outside, but from her gnawingly empty belly. Rather embarrassed, Rahela suddenly realized that she hadn’t had a full, proper meal since that thrice-damned feast from just before her battle with Titan… 

“Oh. That’s right,” Marques blinked. “I remember now.”

Looking up, Rah raised a brow in incredulence. “Wait, seriously? Just from my stomach growling?”

“N-no, no, something else...” He stood up and fetched a pair of bowls from the table. “Father had the feeling you might be getting tired of pears, so he left a meal for us to share.”

She looked into the bowl handed to her. “Mole loaves…? I guess that makes sense, there’s lots of moles outside Drybone.” 

“Mm. Let’s eat…”

Despite being little more than cold ball of soggy ground meat, it was still the best thing she’d had in what felt like a lifetime. She was relieved to rest her weary body and not have to think about anything else.

“That was good…” She murmured, setting her bowl aside once it was emptied. Glancing back to  Marques as he laid out the bedroll, she said, “When Father Iliud gets back in the morning I’ll be sure to thank him for the food, and for everything else he’s been doing.”

The man nodded, softly smiling. “He’s been so kind all these years…”

“Uh-huh.” She lay upon the bedroll with Marques, nuzzling her forehead against his chest, clasping his hand in hers. “You’ve been kind too…”

_ Kind…? _

He didn’t withdraw away from her, but he had no idea how to respond to her compliment. So he said nothing.

Without even realizing it, he’d gotten so used to having other people being uncomfortable around him and avoiding him. And the few who did anything more than tolerate his unsettling presence or avoid him outright, but actively seek out his company, he couldn’t understand why. 

He’d overheard Dedeju and Ourcen talking about Rahela just a few hours ago, questioning Iliud’s decision to leave her in Marques’ care. Dedeju noted from their brief interaction yesterday that the new girl had started acting and dressing like the hermit, latching onto him like a stray puppy. The lalafellin woman commented that of all the potential role models to emulate in the church’s small staff, Marques was  _ far _ down that list. And he agreed. The only purpose he served was to repair things. The closest thing he had to a social life was accidentally befriending a roving band of zombies who must have mistaken him for one of their own. That and occasionally serving as a captive audience to that elezen scientist who was always practicing his lectures for symposiums on corrupted crystals, and sometimes correcting him. Not that he had any idea how he knew anything about aether or crystals or the elements… 

He wasn’t sure if he preferred being alone or not. So much of the time, it was all just unbearable. But… Despite her short time being here, having Rahela nearby kept him somewhat grounded in reality. That was at least better than before… 

 

_ The silence was almost as bad as the screaming. Either he was thinking too much or thinking nothing. His mind was always either a tempest or a void. Thinking was remembering, and remembering was always pain and roaring. The roaring, of fire, of the breaking earth, of wyrms, it drowned out everything else in his head. He couldn’t breathe when he so much as remembered the smoke and ash and dust and death, it still felt too real, it hurt too much… but there was something worse lying underneath it all.  _

_ Every time he flashed back to Carteneau, that eighth hell on Hydaelyn, it stirred up emotions even stronger than fear; guilt and despair, like a monster’s claws ripping him apart from the inside out. Somehow he knew that the world breaking apart and being consumed by flames was his fault. Even though he couldn’t imagine how or why, he knew. More than once he collapsed to his knees before the mass graves and broke down, begging forgiveness for sins he felt but didn’t know. _

_ But it was all so exhausting, trying to remember his past, trying to think to a time before the death and destruction. Father said it was good for him. So he preferred staring into nothing and thinking of nothing. The only true relief he could find was in fixing broken things. Fences, roofs, tools, trinkets… But he could never fix himself.  _

 

_ “Father…?” He can’t remember when he asked this. “Why am I still here?” _

_ Iliud looked up, quizzically glancing at his charge. “What do you mean? Do you wish to leave?  _

_ “No, no, I don’t mean the church. I meant…” Marques felt a sharp twinge of shame for placing this on the priest’s shoulders. “Why am I still alive…?” _

_ Silence for a moment before Iliud spoke again. “… May I ask what you mean by that, my child?” _

_ Marques tried to swallow his nervousness, but found his throat dry. “I, y-you, you saved me, and you took me in. I survived, but I’ve done nothing to repay your kindness. I’ve done nothing but trouble you. Haven’t built any kind of life since then. You said that I should remember what my life was before, but it hurts. Remembering hurts. Every time I try, it feels like my head might split open. I can’t sleep because every time I do it takes me back to Carteneau… And there were so many others who deserved life far more than I, but died. Even your–” He stopped, immediately cursing himself, Marques you bloody idiot why would you bring up his son?! “So why– why should I survive when…” _

_ He felt a hand on his shoulder, and saw Iliud shake his head. The priest considered his words for a moment longer, and then simply sighed. “There is not always a reason. Sometimes the will of the gods is beyond what our minds can fathom.” His formerly somber expression became a gentle smile. “But I do believe that you live now for a reason. I’m certain that you have a greater purpose. And even if you don’t, you shall always be welcome here, and remain for as long as you wish.” _

_ ‘No, stop it,’ he thought. ‘Please, please don’t… Why do you care about me? Please stop caring about me. I’m nothing. I’m a waste. An empty shell.’ _

_ “... I don’t know if I can believe that.” _

 

_ Before he went to sleep that night, he prayed. He prayed to Nald’thal, all alone, so quietly that his whispers were mere hissing breaths. “You’re the Traders, aren’t you? Then, I wish to make a trade. Will you…” He gulps down the lump growing in his throat. “Will you please— please give back the real Marques, in exchange for my life? Everyone would be better off this way… Father would have his son back. And the pain that torments me every day would finally end. Please… no one would really miss me, I’m—” _

_ Marques thinks he hears footsteps. But looking around, he sees nothing. He almost thinks the twin gods have answered him. But a long pause reveals no such thing, and disappointment gnaws at him.  _

_ And slowly, he realizes. “... But of course. I see now. I’m a fool… How could I be so conceited to think that my soul for his would be an even trade.” He almost laughed, a twitching corner of his mouth almost rising. The forceful exhales that could pass for bitter laughter slowly became choked. A single tear slid down his cheek, followed by more, dripping freely onto the floorboards. “I’m…” _

_ Empty. Hollow. Vacant. Worthless. “I’m nothing.” _

 

_ The next day, he noticed that several items around the church grounds had vanished, gathered up and hidden under lock and key; cutlery, tools with sharp edges, rope… And Iliud was far more reluctant to leave him alone now. From dawn until dusk that day, he was always close by. Marques didn’t ask why, but he had the nagging feeling that he’d done something wrong. But before the priest was due to leave for the night, he took the time to sit Marques down again.  _

_ “... You know, my son was always rather shy, never talking much and keeping to himself. My wife fell under a pall of dreadful melancholy after he was born and grew ill; after she passed, I raised him on my own. He was always reluctant to visit me here, no matter how many times I told him he was no bother. But once I did give him that reassurance, he wouldn’t leave my side for the rest of the day. So it continued until one day when out of nowhere he was a man grown and ready to strike out on his own...” _

_ Silence took over the room once again. The elder broke its hold once again with a sigh. “... Ah, I’m rambling again, aren’t I. My point is, you have much in common with my late son. But you are also different in just as many respects. If bearing the name that was once his is a cause of pain for you, then I am the one to blame. So, you need not burden yourself with an old man’s sentimentality.” _

_ He remembered little of the conversation after that. But he did remember feeling overcome, and he struggled to keep himself from breaking into pieces again. Father noticed this, and with all the speed of a parent coming to the aid of their distressed child, he held Marques tight.  _

 

He woke up to disquieting noises–– hyperventilating, whimpering, sobbing: squirming right next to him was Rahela, deep in the throes of a nightmare. And with an agonized scream, she awoke, freezing for several seconds, too petrified to move as she processed where she was. “M-Marques, I— I’m so, s-so sorry, it’s, I’m not, it was—! Meteor…” She pursed her lips as she struggled to regain her breath, one hand shifting into her pocket. “I, I dreamed that I— I called down Meteor. I destroyed,  _ everything,  _ even— even the people I wanted to save...” Her teal eyes welled up again and she bit her lip, trying and failing to keep herself from another emotional breakdown.

Without a second thought, he held her tight.


	4. A Tall Drink of Aqua Del Sol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four days after the Waking Sands massacre, Rahela Uillces fulfills a peculiar request.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter this time around, with a bit of comic relief mixed in. Especially considering what's coming next…

“Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow ow  _ ow ow owww… _ ”

Finding a place to safely grip a sabotender del sol without injury was proving difficult. Rahela hissed in pain, getting pricked with cactuar spines wherever she tried to hold it. After having the skin on her hands broken in several places, (godsdammit, it poked through her gloves too…) she had to eventually resort to pushing it along with her staff. 

“‘Go slay a sabotender del sol and bring it back,’ she said. ‘With your skill at arms it will be easy,’ she said...” Rahela groused to herself, pushing the sabotender corpse along in the dirt. “What am I even doing here. I should be looking for the others. Why am I wasting time like this.”

But she had no further instructions beyond ‘seek sanctuary at the church.’ And that was what kept nagging at her. Had Minfilia given those same instructions to the others in the event of an attack? If she did, then what was taking so long for the Scions who weren’t present at the Sands? It had been, what, four days now…?

Lost in her thoughts, Rahela tripped over her own feet and stumbled forward onto the dead sabotender. A yowl of pain echoed across all of Eastern Thanalan.

 

With bleeding hands and bleeding legs, standing in Camp Drybone’s local inn, Rahela glowered at Ilcum as she admired the sabotender she would use to make ‘Aqua del sol’ for the clergy. Oblivious to the death glare she was getting, she said, “I never imagined that you would return so quickly! Thank you so much, Rahela.”

Plucking out some stray cactuar needles from her shins, Rah only stared, pointedly canting her head at the slain plantkin, silently inquiring about the purpose for which it was killed. 

Luckily for her, Ilcum understood and nodded. “Aqua del sol is an incredibly simple beverage to prepare. If you would wait but one moment…” She then took the sabotender, having no trouble finding somewhere to grip it, and dragged it into the inn’s kitchen. A few minutes passed, interspersed with some cracking noises like a tree branch breaking, and she returned, holding a single flask of cactus water out to Rahela, which she wordlessly accepted. 

“There! This should serve as a sample of─” When Rahela uncorked the bottle and lifted it, however, Ilcum suddenly protested, “Wait, don't drink it!” 

Immediately she furrowed her brow and frowned, her look of annoyance very plainly saying without spoken words,  _ ‘Excuse me, I killed the thing for you and you can see the blood from where its needles stabbed me. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t drink the fruits of what was mostly MY labor.’ _

Ilcum caught the full force of the scowl, and blushed, stammering out, “I mean, I...I was hoping you might give the first glass to Marques on my behalf. Of course, I intend to provide everyone with a glass eventually.”

The brief flaring of Rahela’s temper cooled right away. “Oh. I mean, if what you need is a taste tester, I’m right here.”

Shaking her head, Ilcum averted her gaze downward. “Er, no, it’s not that. It's just that Marques is so…” She trailed off, cupping her own cheeks with a smile, her blush deepening to that of a rosy red. “Well, you seem to be fond of him too, surely you've noticed what a handsome man he is…”

Rah squinted, recalling the man’s features. And after careful consideration, she had to confess her thoughts: “... Not really, no.”

 

One short walk up the sandy trail later, Rah limped back into the church, wincing with every step. And she hoped Marques wouldn’t notice—

“ _ R-Rahela!  _ You’re bleeding, what happened out there?!”

He noticed.

But before she let him do anything, she held out the glass flask to him, simply saying, “Ilcum made some Aqua del sol. She wanted you to be the first to drink.”

Staring at the flask in total confusion, he had no idea what to say for a long moment. “For me? I... Thank you. Er, I mean, tell  _ her  _ ‘thank you,’ but… I, I can’t accept this…” Nervously he shuffled in place. “I, I appreciate Ilcum's kind gesture, but Father Iliud is in far greater need of this juice. His work places great strain on his body and soul, yet he continues to neglect his health...”

The good priest himself stood only a few fulms away, but Rah noticed his expression change, and he looked rather touched. But she clarifies to Marques, “If that’s what you’re concerned about, Ilcum says everyone’s gonna get some eventually. She just wanted you in particular to be the first to taste it.”

This only confused him more. “… Why?”

“‘Cause she thinks you’re handsome.”

He almost dropped the flask altogether, and he did a double-take, unable to believe what he thought he just heard. “She thinks  _ what?” _

“Oho, is that the way of it?” Iliud said, with an amused little chortle, “Well, Marques, you need not refuse a gift from an admirer on my account. By all means, accept it.”

The man blushed and sputtered in protest, before he chanced to glance over Rah’s shoulder and spotted Ilcum herself, watching from the doorway in mortification. Finally deflating, he gave in, stuttering as he held out his hand? “A-alright, if she really is going to make more for everyone else, then, then I’ll hold onto this…”

Rahela handed the flask to him, neither knowing or caring how awkward she just made this whole exchange. Once the little scene dispersed, she sat down onto the nearest pew and rolled up her pants legs up to her knees, checking if there were any needles she missed...

With some help from Marques and Iliud, the remaining needles were removed and the punctures were healed up. Though her limbs still ached with the lingering effects of the sting, the worst of it had subsided. The good Father thanked her for going to such lengths to procure the materials needed for Ilcum’s restorative drink, which was delivered as promised to the rest of the clergy, including Rahela.

The rest of the day was something of a blur for her; the cactus juice tasted pleasantly enough, but she remained listless as she shadowed Marques throughout his daily chores. She watched him carve out gravestones, (cloud marble, she knew) chisel names into the marble, (‘Liavinne Painefort,’ that one elezen who was so awful to Edda… not even she deserved this...) find empty land and dig a hole to fit whoever would be laid to rest there. (A roegadyn, a hyur, a lalafell, another lalafell…)

All the while, she felt a vague, yet deep-seated sense of unease; she noticed that while the clergy largely left her to her own devices, (unless they needed her for something) they would stare at her whenever they were in the same vicinity. Ourcen in particular seemed to be watching the both of them intently; she approached Rahela at one point and asked if she had anything to confess, and when given a negative answer she seemed dissatisfied…

 

Before she knew it, early evening had fallen over Eastern Thanalan, and she sat alongside Marques on the cliff overlooking the lichyard, both of them staring at nothing. 

“So…” Marques murmured, shyly bowing his head. “Ilcum thinks I’m handsome…?”

Rah blinked her vision back into focus and looked at him. “Have you been thinking about that all day?”

A hint of a blush crossed his face. “No one’s ever said that about me before.”

She nodded. “Mm. Yeah, she does. I didn’t really notice, but I guess I can kind of see where she’s coming from… Meh, I dunno. Can’t really say much, but me and her probably like you for different reasons. Does that make sense?”

“I… I don’t know. I know I should feel something from that, but what…? Should I be happy? Flattered…?” He expelled a sigh, and shook his head. “F-forgive me, this is no concern of yours. I’ll figure it out on my own.”

“Have you drunk your ‘Aqua’ yet?”

“No, I think I’ll save it.” Marques got up to his feet and offered his hand to Rahela. “It’s getting late, let’s head back.”

Without another word, she took his hand and held onto it as they made their way back to the church. Rah asked, “What’s for dinner tonight?”

“The alehouse down in the encampment made roasted nopales from that sabotender.”

Dear gods… One of Rahela’s most hated foods when she was growing up. She grimaced, and very heavily considering giving Marques her portion. 

And then with no warning, he suddenly made a sharp turn on his heels, freezing in place and looking into the lichyard as if he expected a rabid animal to jump out at any moment. But Rahela saw nothing. “What’s wrong?”

Marques could say nothing for a few moments more, forcing himself to take deep, tremulous breaths through the nose. “I… I don’t know. I  _ know _ I keep seeing something there, some kind of black shape, but it keeps eluding my sight…”

Rah felt the hair on her tail stand on end, and with quiet insistence she squeezed his hand. “Come on, let’s go back inside.” She hurried back into the church, tugging him along by the hand.

She heard Marques muttering to himself. “Was it perhaps the girl who...? No, no, it couldn't have been her. It was probably nothing to worry about, likely a wolf of some kind...”

 

_ A black wolf was watching him.  _


	5. Bringing Out the Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five days after the massacre at the Waking Sands, the bodies of the deceased are ready to be moved to the Adama Landama lichyard.
> 
> (Content Warning: this chapter contains gross dead bodies and vomiting in response to said bodies.)

> Marques didn’t see Rahela leave the next morning, and when he remembered the day, a sudden sense of alarm came over him. He knew that today was the day that the bodies of the fallen Scions would arrive at the church for burial; Iliud instructed him the night before to take her out on errands for the duration of the day so she would be spared the sight of her comrades’ bodies being unloaded off a cart and prepared for burial. But when he asked Eluned, she mentioned something about sending her off on another task. Though he trusted the elderly priestess, he couldn’t stave off the sense of worry in his gut.

But he kept to his work as the hours turned by. He spent it checking the holes he’d dug the day before, setting the gravestones in place… Just within his earshot he heard muffled fragments of a conversation, in between the rustling of dirt, the knocking of stones, the buzzing of insects…

He idly recognized the sound of Eluned’s voice; she sounded concerned. _“I took your advice… sent her to Vesper Bay… quite reluctant… Are you certain…? … may only cause her more distress...”_

Followed by a much younger voice, that of Sister Ourcen. _“She saved my life… I barely recognize her now… This is for her own good…”_

_“But Father Iliud said... the girl… no part in this…”_

_“I hate to admit… questioning his judgment… he’s coddling her... she’ll become more and more withdrawn... Her sorrows... laid bare… to recover and move on... Was indeed a terrible tragedy, but... cannot be allowed to succumb… otherwise Rahela will…”_

At hearing his charge’s name, Marques shot up, the conversation now garnering his full attention.

Ourcen continued, “Otherwise she’ll end up like _Marques.”_

Something within him twinged.

“That’s rather cold of you to say, dear.” Eluned chided. “The poor man may not exactly be a social butterfly, but he means well.”

Ourcen shook her head. “I do pity the man, I truly do. But he’s made little if any progress in his rehabilitation these past five years, shown no interest in rejoining society…” A sigh of frustration. “At any rate, I fear it’s too late for him. I cannot fathom what possessed Father Iliud to place Rahela in his care; what in the world could Marques provide for her that the rest of us could not?”

“Be that as it may, he does seem to be fond of her. Just yesterday evening I saw him walking hand in hand with her, sweet and gentle as a sheep with its lamb.”

“I tried to speak with her yesterday, asking to hear her confessions so she could give voice to her woes, yet she didn’t seem to have heard me at all. What she needs right now is not babying or to be distracted from her problems with menial tasks. What she needs is to face reality head-on and come to terms with what happened. _That_ is why I suggested you—”

Eluned finally noticed that they weren’t alone, and nudged the younger woman. “Ourcen, dear…”

Turning round, the priestess jolted in shock to see the very man of whom she’d been speaking so harshly. “M-Marques!” But quickly she composed herself and cleared her throat, and when she spoke again, it was with a clear, stern voice. “What have I told you about eavesdropping?”

“I-I, I’m, I’m so— M-my apologies…” He always panicked when Ourcen took that sharp, scolding tone with him, “I… I was looking for Rahela, and heard you talking about her. Please tell me, where did you send her?”

Remaining silent for another moment, Ourcen looked down. And she sighed. “I can tell that you care for the girl, at the very least. Your heart is in the right place, but all things considered, your companionship may not be the most conducive means of helping her recovery. ”

Marques frowned. He kept his voice soft, but he was increasingly insistent on getting a direct answer. “I know that, but I’m still responsible for her well-being. Please tell me where she’s gone.”

“I bade Eluned send her to Vesper Bay.”

“ _What?”_ He looked to the elderly priestess to confirm this.

Eluned quickly offered her defense. “I merely informed her that the work in transporting the bodies had begun and suggested going to assist. She was given every opportunity to decline going to help, but she just nodded and went on her way.”

As wrong as these tidings felt to him, he had no reason to doubt the truth of what either of them said. He grimaced, and asked, “She didn’t say anything about why she would go back…?”

“No, she did not. She seemed reluctant, but nobody forced her into going.”

He accepted that much. And there was the strong possibility that Rahela simply wasn’t as squeamish as he feared. After all, the very first time they met, she was dragging a body bag behind her, showing no plain signs of distress, and he told her where to bury it. But all the same, he felt a pit in his stomach, sure that this would not end well.

His fears would be confirmed less than an hour later.

The chocobo-drawn carriage pulled into the lichyard; Marques could hear the buzzing of the corpseflies from several yalms away. Members of the clergy greeted the driver pulling in and coming to a stop next to the chocobo stables, but he held back, just listening.

“It is a relief to see you here in one piece, sir,” Eluned greeted the man. “We had some concerns that you might have been waylaid by scavengers, but clearly they were for naught.”

The disheartened coachman, a stocky highlander man, shrugged in apology. “I weren’t in much of a hurry–ain't like these folk have pressing appointments to keep, you know. There was an unexpected wrinkle, though...” He rubbed the back of his neck, gesturing to the card behind him. “Picked up one more body than we was expectin’.”

 _‘Oh no oh no oh no_ **_oh gods no…_ ** _’_ Legs moving of their own accord, Marques ran, hurrying to the cart, desperately hoping against hope…

He didn't register anyone elses’ voices as he approached the back of the cart. Even for a lichkeeper far too used to the smell of decay, the odor was so overpoweringly rank that he nearly gagged. Buzzing flies filled the miasma-filled air, several trying to get under the thick tarp that covered the dead bodies. And on top of the tarp lay the unconscious, limp form of…

“Rahela…!” Holding his breath and swatting his way through a wall of vilekin, Marques pulled her down from the pile of corpses and cradled her in his arms. Turning to the coachman for answers, he panicked, “What happened to her? Is she alright?!”

Taken aback, the highlander shrugs. “We thought she’d come to help move the bodies to the cart, but I ‘spose in hindsight they wouldn’t send in a tiny little thing like her… We had her carry the last, say, eight bodies from the building to the cart; she were almost done when she up and had a conniption right in the middle of Vesper Bay, then emptied her guts onto the street and fainted. Reckon she didn’t think to cover her nose; some of ‘em were startin’ to turn...”

Marques twitched. Something furious swelled inside him, and he scowled at the driver. A livid, disgusted voice in his head snarled, ‘ _Idiot! Incompetent bloody idiot!’_ But the hostility of his own inner thoughts shocked him enough to not give them voice. Clutching Rahela’s unconscious form, he took a deep breath to calm down.

“She’s my charge, I’ll take her back–” No, they’ll be busy performing rites and preparing the bodies for burial now that they’re here. He wouldn’t want her to wake up to that. “I’ll take her down to to recover at the inn.”

Reaffirming his grip on Rahela, he carried her down the path to Camp Drybone.

 

_She’d only meant to ask around… Maybe Yda, Y’shtola, or Thancred came back to the Sands, or someone had at least seen them… But when she got there…_

_“Erm… Excuse me, sorry to bother you, but have I’m looking for—“_

_“Eh? Ye don't look like one of them church fellas. Not that I'll turn ye away, no ma’am.”_

_“W-wait, hold on, I’m not—“_

_“As ye can see, we've got a pile of unidentified bodies over yonder. No one's come to claim 'em, so off to the lichyard they go.”_

_“That’s not what—“_

_“Be thankful ye didn't have to go inside and see the carnage for yerself.”_

_“I, I did, actually—“_

_“'Twas the stuff of nightmares, I tell ye. Godsdamned imperials.” He spat in contempt. “I don't know what quarrel they had with these folks, and I sure as hells don't want to know. The sooner we put this behind us, the better.”_

_“Will you please—“_

_“There's only eight left to load up, but seein' as I'm exhausted from carryin' all the others, I've a mind to leave the remainder to you.”_

_“W-w-w, wait, what?! No, I never said—!”_

 

_The man walked off, not even letting her get in a single word. She could only gawp, stunned speechless after that verbal steamrolling. Rarely was she ever one to turn down someone’s request, but this…? Moving the bodies…?_

_Satzfloh, Percevains, Clive and his sister, three guards whom she recognized but had never spoken to… And Noraxia…_

_Eight corpses, five days old, in the desert heat… The stench was overpowering, and even worse was knowing that she had to carry the fallen Scions from ‘Point A’ to ‘Point B’ as if they were sacks of flour. But with the other worker having casually relieved himself, she had no choice. She grit her teeth and held her breath._

_The lalafells went first; deceptively heavy, likely because of their armor, but she carried two in one trip, each under an arm. Upon reaching the cart, the driver took them both and unceremoniously tossed them into the back. Something in her heart reacted with visceral horror, but she feared any objections she raised would only be dismissed. So she shrunk back and dragged her feet back down to the Sands and continued her gruesome work, one body at a time. Clive and his sister— they weren’t even Scions, they were from the Students of Baldesion all the way from Sharlayan. They’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time and they’ll never get to go home. The hyuran Immortal Flame—a compatriot in her secondary allegiance. As an Immortal Flame herself, she wondered if she should report back to Raubahn, but what could she tell him? That she’d let her own comrades be slaughtered like animals? Percevains—he’d never spoken to her, nor she to him. All she knew was that he, along with Una Tayuun and Satzfloh had been part of the Path of the Twelve before the Calamity. Beyond that, nothing. She wasn’t sure if that made having to bear their bodies to their final resting places better or worse. She treated their remains with all the dignity she could muster, for the coachman would not give them the same._

_Noraxia was second to last. Rahela cradled the fallen sylph as delicately as possible, carrying her across Vesper Bay. Her plantlike body wasn’t decaying in the same manner, but withering. She was so light, yet that made her weigh the heaviest on Rahela’s heart… When the coachman reached for her, she moved away from him, gingerly placing her in the cart herself._

_The last corse that needed transporting was that of Satzfloh. Already spent with thoughts of death, she just wanted to finish, go back to the church, and think of absolutely nothing. With a deep breath, Rah gripped the leather straps on his tunic and pulled as hard as she could to get him up the stairs. There was no hope of her carrying a roegadyn so large, and even dragging him was strenuous to the point where Rahela was fully winded by the time she reached the top and she had to take a moment to breathe that— rancid stench— she heaved— retched— throat stinging— her knees gave out— the world tumbled over itself and all went black..._

 

A foul, bitter taste in her mouth. Ears ringing. Vision blurred, her head so heavy she couldn’t lift it upright, too weak to move, she felt like she might be dying herself. With a groan, she tried to make sense of where she was. Through the fog in her mind she heard a muffled voice.

“ _—she’s stirring._ ” She could barely hear the voice, but it kept talking. _“Professor, I’m sorry to keep imposing, but could you—”_

A fresh round of throbbing pain in her head dulled her senses once again. Everything hurt. She doesn’t know how much time passed before the pain subsided again; what felt like an age later, she only just registered that she lay in a bed, tucked under a thin duvet. A faint whimper escaped her. Moments later, she felt a calloused, but cautious hand push back her bangs to rest on her forehead. And from the depths of her memory, a barely-familiar face rose to her mind’s eye.

_That of a miqo’te man. Rahela could only remember select features about him, but those few fragments were strong. Mostly bald, but the stubbly whiskers on his chin would scratch her forehead whenever he hugged her tight enough to squeeze the breath from her. He would grin ear to ear, showing his teeth, and give her a ruffling of her hair. And she would giggle, and just enjoy being held by her father._

_The last time she saw him, he was covered in bruises and wounds, and sitting at her bedside late one night when she was sick with fever. His face void of emotion, he checked her temperature out of habit, but didn’t say anything. She saw his mouth moving, but she couldn’t hear his last words to her. She reached out her tiny arms to him, wordlessly asking for him to hug her, but he moved out of arm's reach. He got up, picking up his travelling bag, and made his way out the door. But, she didn’t hear what he said. He couldn’t leave, he was the first of so many to leave her, if he stayed then everything would be different, please don’t go…_

Blearily opening her eyes, a hoarse whisper escaped her. “Da…?”

And a familiar voice answered, “Rahela? Oh... Thank the gods, you’re awake.”

Silver eyes and white whiskers were the first thing she saw. Marques knelt by her bed, looking tired as ever, but a faint smile signaled his relief to see her awake.

“Marques…” Rubbing her aching temples, she rolled over to face him. “H-how did I get here…?”

“The coachman says you got sick and fainted. He brought you back to the church, and I took you down here to the inn so you could get some rest.”

“Oh… sorry for worrying you.” But she remembered that she fainted before she could finish her task. “What about…”

“Everyone else is taking care of your comrades. They’ll be treated with the utmost respect.”

“Thank you.” She thought back to their earlier treatment by the driver, and shuddered, “That… that was the worst thing I’ve ever been made to do.”

“It… it won’t happen again. I promise.” He hesitated to say more. “Sisters Eluned and Ourcen… they surely didn’t mean for this to happen when they suggested that you go. I don’t know _what_ they expected to happen, but... their intentions were good.”

Rah took note of the way his nostrils flared and the corner of his mouth twitched for the briefest second, and how his tone sharpened. That’s the closest she’d ever seen him to getting angry. And he noticed too, and quickly caught himself with a shaking of the head. “Oh, n-no, never mind, I… I’m sorry, I, I shouldn’t say anything about them.”

Silence ruled the room for several seconds. Rahela heard the sound of shuffling cloth, and Marques said, “S-sorry, just…” And from a pocket in his robe, he retrieved the glass flask from yesterday, the one that contained his portion of the aqua del sol, and set it atop her bedside table. “Here. If you’re falling ill and fainting, you need to drink this.”

Taking the flask and uncorking it, she looked to Marques. “Ilcum is gonna be disappointed you never drank any of your juice.”

“Mmmf…” A faint pinkness touched the man’s cheeks, but he insisted. “That is... that’s fine by me. You need it more. So please, drink…”

A few sips of the water was enough to soothe Rahela’s parched throat at the very least, as well as wash the rancid taste out of her mouth. She drank until the flask was mostly empty, at which point silence took over again.

A knock on the door broke it again. “Rahela?” The sound of Sister Eluned’s voice came through. Right away Rahela rolled back over towards the wall, hugging the bedsheets to herself and curling into a ball.

She heard the door open and Eluned stepped into the room. “Ah, there you are, dear.” The only acknowledgment the adventurer gave was a grunt. “I must apologize on behalf of myself and Sister Ourcen. If we’d known how the task would upset you, we…”

Eluned trailed off, met with no reaction from her audience. Rahela faced away from her, and Marques sat on the bed beside his charge, staring at the priestess with an unreadable lack of emotion in his expression. She continued speaking anyway. “It was Sister Ourcen’s idea that you be sent to help the porters with moving your comrades, but it was I who advised you to go to Vesper Bay. We hoped that, in doing so, you find some small measure of peace, but… Clearly we were wrong, and for that I offer my deepest apologies.”

 _Godsdammit._ Rahela didn’t want to accept. Both of the priestesses should have realized that such an idea would end badly from the first. But even so, she found herself sitting up in bed and wordlessly nodding, acknowledging Eluned’s apology.

She had more to say. “The carriages from Vesper Bay arrived not long ago, and we have begun preparing your comrades for burial. I had a hand in the initial rites, and I...I would like you to know that, for many, death came quickly.” A pause, then she went on. “Rest assured that we will treat them with the utmost respect, and do everything we can to shepherd them to Thal's realm.”

All Rahela could do was nod blankly. Her emotional stores were running on empty.

But then Marques spoke up, his voice halting and hesitant. “Rahela… if, if I may ask… why did you go to Vesper Bay in the first place? Eluned and Ourcen only suggested it, they didn’t force you…”

He was right. Going there had been her choice; but she didn’t go for the reasons she’d been told to. “They didn’t force me into it, but the workers did. I only went back to Vesper Bay ‘cause I… I wanted to ask them about my friends. I thought they might’ve heard or seen something…

“But the first person I tried to ask was a shopkeep who’d been carrying the bodies to the cart. He decided he was tired, and thought I was someone come to relieve him. So he told me to take care of the rest, and he left before I could say anything. So, the last eight bodies...”

“Gods above… ” Eluned shook her head and sighed. “It seems this was all a misunderstanding. I shall speak with the others about this. Get your rest, dears; you’ve both been working hard these past few suns, but there’s more work to be done soon.”

Eluned left the room, but Rahela suddenly wanted to yell at her to _leave._ She hated this. _Hated this._

Not even knowing what was said to rouse this sudden wave of anger, she balled up her fists and clenched her jaw. Was it just her balking at the idea of having to get near the bodies again? Or frustration at the fact that this is her life now? ‘ _Is this my life now?’_

Even though she knew that the Scions operated under a veil of secrecy, they still had their connections to the Alliance. Was anybody looking for them? She’d heard no word of a search party; otherwise she would have been the first to join. It would have been far better than just sitting here, cleaning up the mess. She couldn’t stand not knowing where her friends were. Were they safe? Were they even still alive? The worry plagued her mind and filled her with constant, unbearable dread. And every day she wasted doing nothing was another day her captured friends would be forced to endure more suffering and torture. They could all already be dead and she would have no idea all the way out here. But she feared leaving, too. This was where Minfilia wanted her to be, wasn’t it? But she didn’t say why, or for how long. Would someone, anyone, think to look for her here…? Was anyone going to come at all? Was there anyone else out there?

All the questions swarming about her mind, made her stressed and impatient and overstimulated. She held her head in her hands, and whimpered as the throbbing in her head returned, hot droplets of tears catching on her eyelids as she squeezed them shut. Not even noticing the weight sinking onto the bed next to her until she felt Marques’ hand on her back, petting between her shoulderblades. He slowly tucked her into his arms, resting her head against his chest. “It’s alright, it’s alright… You won’t be forced into anything else. You won’t have to see it again. So please, please…”

“S-sorry…” She choked, unable to hide her sobs. “I, I know, I seem to—” _Sniffle._ “Have a breakdown every other day. You, you probably have better things to do than to babysit me…”

“No, no, it’s no trouble, I promise,” Marques soothed. “Truth be told, I’d rather be down here with you than be up there. Even though taking care of the dead my job as lichkeeper, it’s just so… so sad.”

A weak twitch at the corner of her mouth signalled the barest hint of amusement. “And I’m happy?”

“N-no, uh, n-not exactly, just… There’s only so much one can do for the dead. But, helping you, it’s…” Marques trailed off, shaking his head as if the words he wanted to express would be written on the wall somewhere, but he gave up with a sigh. “I don’t know. But, I… I care about you.”

Hearing his words, Rahela found herself sort of… slumping backwards against her caretaker. He was warm, his whiskers scratched against her… but he’d hugged her without her having to reach out. As much as she resented her current and continued circumstances… she stilled her heart, closed her eyes, and relaxed into Marques’ hug. His reassurance didn’t really fix anything, but she somehow still felt marginally better. “Thank you…”

“I’ll be right here, as long as you have need of me,” he said, leaning down on the bed and tugging the blanket back up enough to cover Rahela’s shoulders. “I promise. Take this time to get some rest.”

Rahela took that advice. She laid still, breathing evenly, the muffled, uneasy thudding of Marques’ heartbeat against her cheek. And she wasn’t sure if she actually fell asleep; she spent either minutes or hours curled up with him before she asked, “What time is it?”

“A little past sundown, I think. Someone will let us know when the work is done. Why do you ask?”

“I don’t think I feel nauseous anymore. Not really hungry, but I think I can eat something and keep it down.”

“Then, I’ll go and get something.” Unwrapping his arms around her and getting off the bed, he asked, “Is there any food at the tavern that you’d like?

It only took a few seconds of thought for her to decide. “Those mole loaves from a few days ago, they were really good…”

 

Marques would feel eyes upon him again as he stepped out of the Eternal Sleep Inn and made his way to the tavern across Camp Drybone. A rush of anxiety would take him and he’d hurry his pace, with a panicked look, trying to scan the area for a threat he sensed but couldn’t see. The man watching him from above, the imperial soldier, was almost amused with his target’s unease. But alas, the lichkeeper disappeared through the tavern door, marking a good time to call his superior and make his usual report.

 _“Good evening, Frumentarius,”_ the Tribunus Laticlavius’ voice greeted him from the other end of the line, in its usual, blasé manner. _“You caught me just as I was about to start my dinner. Perhaps entertain me with all the ways that You-Know-Who has debased and humiliated himself today…?”_

“His movements are changed. The people living here fancy him a lichkeeper, and true to that, he was digging graves for most of yesterday. But when the casualties from Tribunus Junius’ raid arrived today, he took that girl he’s been keeping close to and headed into town, taking no part in the bodies’ preparations for burial.”

_“Who is this girl he’s so preoccupied with? Give me a description.”_

“The girl? She’s been making token efforts to hide her features, but it’s easy to tell that she’s a miqo’te. Brown hair, medium height and build… She uses the same kind of black magic used by the signiferi. Thaumaturgy, I believe the savages call it.”

_“... Hm. Well well. Congratulations, Frumentarius; not only did you find the traitor, you may also have found the thorn in our side.”_

“What do you mean, milord? I know that our contact in the Black Shroud and our operatives there were compromised by a miqo’te adventurer, is she—”

_“We have a new high-priority target; if this miqo’te is who I think she is, she was the target of Lady Livia’s raid. I’ve been watching her movements for some time now, but somehow lately she’s managed to elude me since then… If this is where she’s gone...”_

“With all due respect, milord, I doubt this is the same miqo’te; Eorzea’s crawling with them to begin with—“

_“Continue your watch on the church. If the traitor and the eikon-slayer truly have allied, we must needs act quickly. Just imagine the glory in store for a soldier who succeeds in capturing both of them...”_

“The eikon-slayer…?!”


End file.
